“You had a serious head injury and don’t even know who you are. You can expect periods of profound exhaustion and confusion. Unexpected nausea and vomiting aren’t out of the question.”
I posted a selfie this morning and got 220 likes already. If that doesn’t say near-full recovery, nothing will. “I’m fine, Max. Plus I have Siri. My digital assistant’s got me covered.” It’s like he doesn’t understand it’s 2020. “You just do your thing. I’ll pick you up after you’re done studying brains.” I don’t have time to linger; I have two posts to investigate: 1) sexy beach selfie, and 2) yacht selfie.
After I drop Max off, my phone buzzes. Dear God in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done: my texter’s name is Kobra. (And I might be Catholic?)
Hey Sweetcheeks, Crystal ain’t answering my texts.
Me either. How could I forget Crystal of the What are you calling me for? I’m done phone call. Unless I know tons of Crystals?
I’ll go check on her. Have plans tonight for a private boat ride to Catalina. Don’t want her to miss out.
Damn! Sounds like a lucky girl.
It’s in the cards for her.
Go get ’em, Kobra.
Oh, I’m a big bad snake.
I’m guessing Kobra is from a trailer park and has chipped at least one tooth opening a beer bottle. Still, he sounds okay…I think.
Good luck with Crystal, dude!
I wonder if I know Kobra for real. Maybe he and Crystal and I are super awesome friends. I search my Insta friends for Kobra and…
There he is. @TheBigSqueeze562. He’s almost naked in his profile photo, undoubtedly to show off his bomb tattoo. A life-size python coils around his torso and extends down his arm, ending at his wrist. The snake’s jaw is unhinged and it appears that Kobra’s hand is coming out of the snake’s mouth. Rad tattoo, dude.
His posts feature him fronting like a gangsta all over LA, plus some close-ups of the tattoo. What appear to be stripes from a distance are words, and when I look closer, I can make out a Bible verse. The serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the Lord God had made. Then, more directly, I am the devil. Take the fucking apple, Eve.
As far as Bible translations go, I’m giving him props: creepy but clearer and more accessible. Way to bring Genesis into the modern world.
His Instagram bio actually says, Snake charmer. Preacher. DM me ladies.
Crystal might be out of her mind. Either that or Kobra is not as creepy as his tattoo makes him seem, which is common with tattooed guys. Hard to tell till you meet ’em. That’s why you can never trust online profiles.
Back to me and all my selfies…
According to the tag, my beach selfie was taken on Long Beach. Based on the island in the background, it was taken next to the third lifeguard station in. It looks like any other California beach except for one thing: the island just offshore looks like the lowest-price-point Lego set, an overly simplified version of what an island should be. It has one palm tree, one glass building, and no people. Creepy.
Just like the rest of the town of Long Beach, the beach itself is filled with people on the raggedy edge of California. Lots of young and beautiful people who look like they might be on drugs and could benefit from a shower. Not quite as square or polished as Pasadena. Not as much money as WeHo. Not as glitzy as Sunset. Also, more drugs in plain sight.
In my selfie, a breeze is ruffling my perfectly highlighted hair, the sideswept bangs covering one eye like I’m Marilyn Monroe. The nearby lifeguard station hints that I might be on the set of Baywatch. As for the push-up bikini top—it’s doing its job and then some.
I trudge down the beach to find lifeguard station three. I don’t expect to find anyone there but I’m going one hundred percent Veronica Mars on this investigation and not skipping a single step. Maybe I’m a PI or a cop! Who knows. When I find the spot where I took the picture, I’m right outside some public restrooms. In front of the restrooms, a homeless guy who appears to be tweaking hard (on meth?) has built a semipermanent structure. Was I really smiling like I was on a Hawaiian vacation right in front of him? Maybe it wasn’t even a selfie. Maybe this guy, or someone like him, took my picture. Maybe I simply don’t see the homeless. That’s what they always say about rich people. Have I been walking through life oblivious to the human suffering around me?
The homeless guy takes out his earbuds and walks over. “Yo Mia, you got a couple of bucks? I need bus fare.”
“What?” My jaw drops. “You know me?”
“Duh.”
“How?” Do I volunteer my time at the soup kitchen? Do I regularly give spare change to panhandlers?
“Like you don’t know?”
“I don’t.”
“Thursday free lunch at that church.” He squints harder at me. “What are you on today?” I volunteer to feed the homeless! God, I love myself. “What about bus fare?”
I give him $10 of sock-drawer money because I’m that kind of person.
He fist-bumps me and gives me a “thanks,” and then, with the confidence of someone who believes he’ll actually see me around, he says, “See ya around.”
* * *
I pull out my phone and check out the next post to investigate. My yacht is just a ways down the shoreline at the Long Beach Marina. Or it could be a friend’s yacht, or just one of the many yachts I frequent in my daily life. I tagged it #TheGoodLife. The yacht’s name, I suppose? Did I pick that name?
The Good Life is not hard to find. She’s parked on the end of the first dock. Or is it a pier? IDK.
When I catch sight of her, I feel all sparkly and effervescent and my breath catches at her beauty. I laughed at Cindy when she said I might wake up to a dream, but she was right. I’m living the dream. The Good Life is probably the fanciest boat at this particular dock. She’s big and white with lots of decks and undoubtedly stocked with more martini glasses than flotation devices, like any good boat should be. “Maybe this is where I had my accident,” I say as I scan the decks. I could have reenacted Overboard.
I study the Insta post once more. I’m with a girl I didn’t tag. We look like models having the time of our lives, and really, why wouldn’t we be? Young, beautiful, rich, on a yacht—what more could a person want?
I step onto the boat and turn a full 360 degrees to take in every inch of the view. It’s so pretty. I can’t believe I own a boat?! Well, a skeptic like Max couldn’t believe it. I can because I’m open to joy and wonder in my life. Glass half full. Heart half full. I kick off my heels. The gentle rocking of the boat doesn’t work well with stilettos. Neither does sand. I would give anything to find my wardrobe soon. If not, I’m tracking down my debit card and buying some more shoes.